


Like A Force To Be Reckoned With

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Kidnapping, M/M, No Angst, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Which doesnt really make sense but tRust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Crowley wasn’t an idiot. In fact, he’d go as far as to say that he was, typically, quite clever.( Anyone could lose the antichrist, really, and that wasn’t even his fault. No one had told him that there was a fucking third baby involved in that whole cabal.)So when he received a message from Aziraphale that simply said In need of assistance, meet me at Piccadilly Circus station , Crowley knew it was a trap.





	Like A Force To Be Reckoned With

**Author's Note:**

> This is longer than expected and I'm posting on the band bus please help

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley _ wasn’t _an idiot. In fact, he’d go as far as to say that he was, typically, quite clever.

(_ Anyone _ could lose the antichrist, really, and that wasn’t even _ his _ fault. No one had told _ him _ that there was a fucking _ third baby _involved in that whole cabal.)

So when he received a message from Aziraphale that simply said _ In need of assistance, meet me at Piccadilly Circus station _, Crowley knew it was a trap.

Aziraphale had a mobile, yes, but he didn’t _ use _ it. It was a showpiece, something the angel carried around because he’d gotten tired of the looks people gave him when he admitted to not having one (and because he had gotten tired of Crowley’s nagging about him needing _ something _, some way for the demon to contact him if he happened to be away from the bookshop).

That being said, if someone had access to Aziraphale’s mobile, they most likely also had access to _ Aziraphale _.

Which was, frankly, _ not fucking allowed _.

Crowley sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. This really was_ quite _ inconvenient. They had _ plans _ for that evening—Crowley had obtained tickets to see the symphony, which just so happened to be doing a concert featuring all of Aziraphale’s favourite composers (the fact that this was happening _ now _ , just about a year after the failed end of the world was entirely coincidental, and you could never prove it otherwise), and they had reservations at the Ritz afterward. It was _ supposed _ to be a nice night out between friends (Best friends? Paramours? Someone forbid, _ lovers _?), and instead Crowley was going to have to walk straight into what was no doubt going to be a ridiculous and irritating attempt at subterfuge.

(It never occurred to him to _ not _ go and rescue Aziraphale—that was one of the cornerstones of their relationship, after all. Aziraphale got himself into precarious positions, Crowley swooped in and saved him, all while insisting that it was simply for the benefit of the Arrangement and to further Crowley’s own lazy, selfish ends.)

The demon sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and grabbed the keys to the Bentley as he made his way out the door.

The angel was going to owe him _ so much _ alcohol.

**

Crowley was supposed to pick Aziraphale up _ thirty-three minutes ago _.

A few minutes’ delay was fine—expected, even—but thirty-three?

Honestly, it was just _ rude _.

(and yes, Aziraphale was aware that demons were, by nature, _ supposed _ to be rude, but then, Crowley hadn’t ever been what he’d supposed to be, had he?)

Aziraphale huffed and reached for his telephone.

_ “You know what to do, do it with style _—”

“Really, the _ nerve _,” Aziraphale muttered.

The phone rang.

“You know, Crowley, if you didn’t want to do dinner tonight, you could’ve just said,” Aziraphale insisted before Crowley could get a word in. “I wouldn’t have minded. But not saying a word? That’s—well, I’m really doing my best to not be too offended, my dear.”

“Principality Aziraphale,” someone said on the other end of the line. Their voice was _ remarkably _ unpleasant, gravelly and grating like someone who’d smoked a pack a day for the past sixty years, yet somehow _ gummy _, as if they were speaking through mud.

Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

“That would be me, yes,” he said, the words short and clipped.

“We seem to have found something of yours,” the voice continued.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. “I, uh, I don’t believe I’m missing anything, actually,” he explained quietly.

“Oh, we've got someone here who would disagree—"

"Would you _ please _cease with all this cryptic nonsense?" Aziraphale finally snapped. His fists were clenched so tightly he knew his perfectly manicured nails were leaving little crescent-moon indentations in his palms. "Do you have Crowley or not?"

"'Sssss fine, angel!" a more distant voice called from over the phone. Unlike the other voice, this one sounded like the sweetest music in Aziraphale's ears (rather hissy music, but no less sweet for it). "'M alrigh', jussss'—gimme a mo, I'll be righ' over t'pick you up—"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale interrupted. "I'll be right there, my dear."

"'M'okay, angel, really. You don'—don' have t'worry—"

"Oh, I insist," Aziraphale, well. _ Insisted _. His voice was even, deadly calm in a way that caused the air around the angel to develop a chill.

The first (and somehow now even _ more _ unpleasant, now) voice cut in, saying, "If the two of you are quite done…"

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Yes, alright. I assume you've called to ask that I turn myself over in exchange for Crowley, or else just to brag about how you managed to capture my—well. Am I correct?"

"Uh, well, yes—"

"I suppose I'll see you shortly, then," Aziraphale replied curtly. "I'd wish you a good day, but I'm still not in the habit of deceit."

He hung up, and with a flap of his wings, he was off.

**

Crowley wasn't sure how long he'd been cuffed to this chair, but it was surely long enough for the thick, black, demon's blood that had been dripping into his eyes to have congealed into a scab just over his left brow. The cuffed on his wrists had some sort of sigil carved into them, and she enough, when Crowley attempted to wile himself off to a beach somewhere, margarita in hand, the metal grew so hot the demon winced.

The room was still spinning, just a bit, and it made it _ incredibly _difficult for the demon to focus on coming up with an escape plan.

He had to get out of there.

He had _ plans _tonight.

Besides, it simply wouldn't do for Aziraphale to show up and see him like this, trussed up like a Christmas ham.

Crowley grumbled under his breath and shifted in his seat. Hastur was standing at the other end of the room, although _ room _ might've been too kind a room for the cement _ cave _Crowley found himself sitting in. He guessed they were still near Piccadilly, probably in some sort of service shaft, if the pipes and boilers and rusty old cabinets were any indication.

"I'd stay still if I were you," Hastur sneered, walking over so that he was just a few feet from Crowley, flipping what looked like a _ hellishly _sharp blade over in his hands. "Just 'cause holy water doesn't work doesn't mean a knife won't, you traitorous snake."

Rolling his eyes hurt, so Crowley settled for what he hoped was a fearsome glare.

(He couldn't exactly argue—Hastur had, for once in his miserable existence, hit the nail on the head. Crowley was, by all accounts, a traitor _ and _a snake.)

"You're the _ worsssst _, d'you know that?" he asked.

"I'm a demon," Hastur replied after a moment of silence. "A _ real _ demon. I'm not—I _ strive _to be the worst, to perform all the evil deeds our Lord commands! I long for the day when I will fight on the side of all that is terrible and wretched and—"

"Not like _ that _," Crowley snapped. "You—you're not even any good at that. How many ssssouls d'you tarnish a year, Hasssstur? Two, if you're lucky?"

"Shut up," Hastur argued. "At least I'm not off consorting with _ angels _—"

"Yeah, 'bout that," Crowley continued. "You really ought t'just let me go _ now, _ before the angel sssshowssss up."

"Why in _ Hell _ would I do that?"

Crowley sighed and wished that his head would stop hurting so that he could do a proper eye roll (it was hard to convey his emotions without them—most of his expressions actually centred around eye rolls, sighs, smirks, and raised eyebrows). "D'you know what kinda angel Azssssiraphale issss, Hassstur?"

"He's a Principality—"

"Yesssss, good to know you have ssssome sssort of brain in your head," Crowley hissed. "Follow up quessstion: d'you know what principalitiessss were _ made _for? What they were dessssigned to do?"

Hastur didn't say a word.

"_ Protection _," Crowley insisted. "Why elsssse would he be on the Garden wall, hmmm?"

The other demon at least had enough sense to look concerned.

"And now you've gone an' _ pissssssed him off _ ," Crowley stated. "How d'you think he'ssss gonna take _ that _?"

Hastur looked _ properly _frightened, now. Crowley almost had him.

"Besssst thing for you to do would be to let me go now, and not have t'deal with it all," he said confidently.

Hastur blinked at him twice, and began to laugh.

"_ Let you go _ ," he said through terribly maniacal guffaws. "You—you really think— _ that angel _—dear Satan, that's—ha!"

Crowley scowled as Hastur finally seemed to get over whatever it was that was so blessed _ funny _.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Hastur said. "Your angel is going to come wandering in here, all doe-eyed and innocent, and I'm going to pin him to the ground and make you watch as I slit his holy throat."

Crowley growled as he tried to throw himself at the other demon, teeth bared.

Hastur stopped him with a press of the knife to his throat.

"None of that, now," he said, his voice low. "I'd hate for you to have to miss the show."

"Oh, I do believe it's a bit too late for that," a voice called across the room. A voice that Crowley would only describe as _ quite terribly put-out. _ "The symphony started an hour ago."

"'Ziraphale!" he said, wincing as he felt the scrape of the blade against his jugular.

He saw the angel's eyes flash.

"I'm going to have to politely ask you to release my—my Crowley," Aziraphale stated. Crowley could see his fingers twitch.

Hastur chuckled. "Or what?" he asked. "You'll play your heavenly harp until I fall asleep?"

"No," Aziraphale disagreed, "but I may be forced to use this."

And with one, fluid motion, Aziraphale pulled his flaming sword out of thin air.

(It must've been the head injury talking, but Crowley couldn't help but be reminded of the way Aziraphale attempted to pull a coin from Crowley's ear.)

"Hold on," Crowley said. "Could you always do that? Jussss'—whip it out whenever it suited you?"

Aziraphale blinked. "I rather don't know, " he admitted. "This is the first I've tried."

Crowley nodded with a shrug.

"But _ as I was saying _ ," Aziraphale continued, and all the sudden the room felt cold, and Crowley was given the impression of a thousand eyes and a thousand wings and a thousand spinning, flaming wheels. When he continued, the angel's voice rang out like choir in a cathedral, echoing and overlapping and immense. " _ Release the demon or face my wrath _."

The thing about demons is, when it comes down to it, they're selfish bastards. Many a demonic wile has been thwarted by the demon's own self interest. For instance, there was the time Ligur was tasked with inciting wrath in a couple of Soviet officials in Germany in the 1980's, but had chosen to go get drunk on German lager chosen. Fast forward a few years, and one Mr. Gorbachev was _ tearing down that wall _.

As such, when faced with all the Fury of a Heavenly Being In An Extreme Fit of Pique, the demon Hastur made the rather selfish decision to, as they say, _ make like a banana and split _.

Aziraphale was on Crowley in a second, breaking away the magic cuffs with his bare hands (not that Crowley noticed it was with his bare hands—no, not at all).

"Oh my dear," he muttered, at once back to being a fussy, fretful, eccentric rare book dealer and not a Beacon Of Divine Wrath. "You really ought to be more careful. How did this happen?"

"You've lossssst your mobile, haven't you?" Crowley asked.

"I hardly think now is the time—"

"_ Angel _."

"Yes, alright, but in my defense, they are so terribly small, and _ incredibly _easy to misplace—as a matter of fact, I don't know how you all don't go about losing them all the time—"

"Hasssstur messssaged me ussssing your number," Crowley explained, stumbling to his feet. Aziraphale was there with his arms around the demon's shoulders the next moment. "Sssaid you were in trouble, to meet you at the sssstation."

"And you went?" Aziraphale asked.

"_ Obviousssssly _," Crowley replied. "I alwaysssss come when you're in trouble, angel."

"You do, don't you?" Aziraphale murmured, mostly to himself.

"Of courssssse," Crowley insisted. "'Sssss 'caussse I love you, angel."

The head injury must've been worse than either of them thought, because with that, he promptly passed out in the angel's arms.

Aziraphale didn't mind.

Probably because he loved Crowley, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me your thoughts!!!


End file.
